


The Weaver

by BurningLeviathans



Category: Dishonored
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-26
Updated: 2013-02-26
Packaged: 2017-12-03 17:43:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 526
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/700947
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BurningLeviathans/pseuds/BurningLeviathans
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He is more than just a deity. He is a weaver.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Weaver

He is a weaver. Unbeknownst to most, he weaves many creations in his vast existence. He weaves the sorrow that plagues the grieving mother, holding her dying child. He weaves the numbing pain the child feels as his mother's tears cascade down his pale face. He weaves the fear that is struck into the hearts of sailors when pirates strike their ship. He weaves the brash cruelty that is so familiar to the pirate as his blade cleaves a red smile in an innocent sailor's neck.

He weaves the seafoam that froths against the shores of distant lands, or familiar beaches. He weaves the sand that is swept back into the ocean, floating into the dark abyss of the cold water. He weaves the songs that are sung throughout the streets, whether in merriment or prayer, in sorrow or happiness.

He wove his existence from the nothingness, and took care to weave the existence of those he watches over. They believe he plague them, when they are nothing more than his children. He created them, and he is a mother's eye watching her children play. He will select a few favourites, and weave them some toys that are theirs to decide what they do. He does not tell them to do good, or evil with their toys. He merely rewards them, if he sees fit.

In return, his early children wove gifts for him, unknowingly paving the way for his future children. They would kiss their gifts, hold them close, smooth their rough hands over the smooth bone. Caress the Mark that they so believed guided them, protected them. He was not a protector.

They pray to him at shrines that he allowed them to put up, despite the anger he feels at every sword that lances through him when a leviathan is cast into the depths of blackness. He does not retaliate. He is not a wrathful being. He is a patient one, an understanding one. He does not guide. He enables.

He tore open the universe, created where he was to spend his eternity, and would cast any that opposed him into death. They would try to take what he had created away from him; they would desire to take his place. They were his children, and no one else's. He tore eternity apart, in a fit of rage. He is not kind.

He watches them with fascination, sometimes pushing a pawn into the right direction to advance their existence. He does not aid, but enables. If they take the wrong direction, or do not accept his help, he will do nothing more. There are those that have turned his back on them, have cast him away. He is not angered, but rather intrigued. He cannot allow them to come to power over those that still love him. He is unforgiving.

But in his existence, he did not forsee a path that he continued to create for himself in the emptiness he calls home. He could not see that in caring for his children, whether human or beast, he was weaving something unfamiliar to him.

He weaves his own loneliness. 

He continues to weave.


End file.
